


Flesh of the Sacrament

by CalamityCain



Category: Jesus Christ Superstar - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Ending, BDSM, Butt Plugs, Cock Cages, Electrocution, Gags, Gang Rape, Guns, Humiliation, M/M, Non-Consensual Bondage, Objectification, Physical Abuse, Prison Sex, Psychological Trauma, Rescue, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:55:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27740350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CalamityCain/pseuds/CalamityCain
Summary: A retracted death sentence is followed by a painful bargain for freedom.(aka what if JCS ended with prison porn and everyone being saved, but at a cost)
Relationships: Jesus Christ/Judas Iscariot, Joseph Caiaphas/Jesus Christ (Jesus Christ Superstar), Non-Consensual Pairings
Comments: 19
Kudos: 10





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LindemannSixx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LindemannSixx/gifts).



> I really just wrote this for Mandy as part of our ongoing filth exchange of who can throw the most whump at (1) poor cinnamon donut
> 
> (more tags to be added as the story progresses. I have only half a plan; we'll see where this disaster train goes as it rambles along)

Voices hovered above him, fading in and out of the blur his world had been reduced to in which his limbs became one with the hardness of the floor, and the cold was bothering him less and less with each passing moment. So this was what it felt like to die.

“I’ve been watching him. He hasn’t moved for a full day.”

“Good; they want him docile and manageable.”

A foot slid into view to poke him in the ribs. Even the half-hearted prod hurt his bruised flesh. He couldn’t remember when he had last been hit, when the blows had ceased. He remembered very little now. His body was preoccupied with other things, like learning how to breathe. Every drag of air hurt, and yet his lungs insisted on hanging on to life. But surely they would not need to struggle for much longer.

“Manageable? You ever tried dragging deadweights around? The last time someone went into a coma here, I nearly broke my back hauling their dead ass.”

“Quit your complaining. Unless you want to go back to cleaning up shit.”

“I’m just saying. We don’t get any help down here. And I ain’t getting younger.”

More back-and-forth, more disgruntled muttering. The words slipped back into a formless mass of sound. Then rough but capable hands were sliding beneath his back, hooking around his legs, lifting him off the floor. His tortured sinews screamed at the movement as every bruise and lash and cracked rib made itself known, forcing a whimper from his lips. The man carrying him was not cruel, but neither was he gentle, and every painful jostle brought back the knowledge of things he would rather forget. The whip that had sliced into his skin and made him burn with agony for days before the wounds began to heal. Steel-toed boots hammering him in the guts till he was coughing blood. Someone plunging his head into ice-cold water again, and again, and again – 

_“A handful of names. That’s all we’re asking for.”_

_He stayed silent. The hand gripping his hair pushed him back in. Darkness, the taste of drowning, the red-hot burning of lungs that refused to give up._

_“Not even one name? Pity.”_

_Another plunge into the cold depths. Holding him under long enough for him to struggle like a dying fish, until they pulled him out choking and sobbing, but not begging. He never begged once._

_“Do you really think they would suffer the same for you?”_

_Again, he was drowning. He must have drowned a hundred times before they gave up. At some point he passed out, longing for death, only to be denied it when someone pumped the water from his insides. He came to with a fit of painful coughing that jarred his abused flesh and bone further. His worn, beaten frame did not take kindly to the violent retching that left him shuddering and ready to surrender to unconsciousness once more. Except there was to be no such mercy. As soon as they knew he was nowhere near death just yet, he was jerked back onto his knees. And the whole ordeal repeated itself._

_When he was a young boy, he had gone swimming with the neighbouring kids in a nearby lake. One of his greatest childish joys had been plunging into that cool water on a humid late afternoon and letting his head sink below the water before emerging, gasping with laughter._

_He knew that if he ever escaped this place, he would never go swimming again._

_The next day, they tried again, breaking two of his fingers in the process. But his screams contained no damning information._

The last of his fading consciousness told him he was being laid on a bed. He could have wept - he had not known the comfort of a mattress for ages. (How long had it been, exactly; how many weeks, or months? Time had ceased to retain any semblance of structure, stretching out only when pain was inflicted, when a ruthless blow or twisting of his limbs jerked him rudely back to the harsh reality he now occupied.) He wanted to say something, to ask why this unexpected luxury was being accorded him, and what price he was to pay for it. But the softness against his sore flesh, and the wonders of a dim cell after being kept half-awake by bright lights for days on end, allowed exhaustion to claim him at last. He slept deeply and knew nothing for a blissful stretch of time.

*

Someone was prodding him, gently this time; no boot in his still-fragile ribs, only a hand lifting his head and shoulders into a semi-upright position. A spoon was being pushed past his lips. With no strength to resist, Jesus allowed the warm liquid to flow into his mouth and down his throat. So he was being kept alive, then. Someone or other thought it worth the effort to feed him and give him a bed, when they could have left him for dead on the floor of his previous cell.

He opened his eyes to see an expressionless face staring down at him, seemingly without sympathy, without feeling, except that the hands were gentle and experienced and managed to get the whole bowl of soup down him without his body rejecting it once. He tried to thank them, but they left as soon as their duty was done. And he found it all too easy in his drained state to drift back into darkness.

Once or twice he heard voices from far away. _“He’s sustained too much damage. Tell Yosef not to waste his time.” “We can still mend him. Give it a few weeks. It’ll be worth your wait.”_

Several times more he was sustained with that patient hand spooning liquids down his throat. Even when he was strong enough to feed himself, it was a good while before he could down solid food without his throat or gut seizing up and attempting to eject every last scrap. Each effort to finish the most meagre of meals left him exhausted. But each time he woke up a little bit stronger, his mind slightly less fogged. His recovery would perhaps have been faster had his existence not lost much of its meaning. It felt as if he was being revived against his will. His body and his life belonged to others now, and they would do with it as they saw fit.

A few days after he began to eat normally again, he was roused from slumber by a clipped, professional voice. It belonged to the neat-looking man examining his hand where the two broken fingers had not healed right. The man made a string of “tsk” sounds as he examined the ridges of improperly healed bone. “We’ll have to rebreak them if they’re to set and heal straight,” he said, talking as if Jesus wasn’t there; as if he was a broken object to be repaired. “If he wants to have use of these fingers again.”

The head warden frowned. “We don’t simply allow prisoners to leave the compound. Any surgery that can’t take place within the grounds will have to wait.”

“You have a hospital, no?” The doctor sounded more vaguely inconvenienced than genuinely concerned. “Or is this ‘reputable’ institute more shabbily equipped than I was led to believe?”

Jesus wanted to ask why he was being cared for and treated all of a sudden – why the abrupt efforts at improving his well-being, when just days ago no one had blinked at the torments inflicted upon him. Surely he had proven useless as far as surrendering information (and betraying his friends) was concerned. But the two men continued to ignore him. His voice was weak and hoarse from disuse, and his abortive attempts to speak went unheard.

The conversation concluded and the doctor left, followed by the head warden. Under different circumstances he would have felt outrage or embarrassment at being so disregarded. As it was, he hardly expected any better. He had expected to be dead, really. And now life was being restored to him, slowly but surely.

Except he didn’t know if he had anything left worth living for.

*

He had begun to forget the faces of his friends. They appeared in a dream as vaguely defined shapes with familiar voices that made his heart ache. The scene was a perfectly ordinary one: they were in a pub they had been in countless times, and he felt the chilled condensation of the beer bottle in his hand, even if (as is the nature of dreams) he never got to taste its contents. There was a band performing on a small raised platform. The singer’s form was equally vague at first, haloed in smoky yellow light. But when he turned to face them, Jesus saw the face of his beloved. Judas’ piercing eyes found his; those eyes were smiling at him, holding an infinite vastness of love for him alone. In that moment everything turned painfully crystal-clear. Before he could speak or reach out to anyone, the dream ended.

He woke up awash in loneliness he had not felt for a long time. His heart ached with misery and desperate longing, and he found himself sobbing unrestrainedly into his pillow, thankful that he shared the cell with no one. The only person who witnessed his tears was the mute, sexless being who had fed him when he first rose from the endless nightmare of violence and pain and being thrown repeatedly against a cold hard floor. This same person waited until his sobs subsided before approaching him soundlessly to remove his clothing.

“Why…” he began to ask. They pointed at the basin and washcloths beside them. “Oh. Are you sure I can’t just use the showers?” His own voice sounded odd to him, even if it was no longer hoarse and weak. He had spoken so little to anyone; most of the time he was not required to speak, or indeed to have any sort of opinion.

“At least let me clean myself.” The attendant offered no objection. When he rose to his feet and reached for one of the cloths, a bout of dizziness overwhelmed him. Perhaps the shower would not have been a great idea after all. He found that he could stand for a few minutes at most before his legs began to tremble. He was glad for the lack of mirrors in this place, wondering just how malnourished he looked. He could not remember ever feeling properly sated ever since his imprisonment began. Either he had been too miserable to swallow more than the bare minimum of food, or meals had been outright denied him when the authorities had attempted to starve him into cooperation.

His voiceless attendant was about to help him wash his hair – gesturing with a scrubbing motion to their own head – when the doctor who had examined his broken fingers (since reset and locked in a splint cast) stepped in. Jesus was suddenly conscious of his nakedness, and chided himself; the man’s cursory gaze was purely impersonal. He looked a bit bored, impatient even, with the air of someone who saw himself as above tending to criminals.

Without so much as a greeting, he brushed aside the mute attendant and proceeded to conduct his examination in a way that made Jesus feel like a piece of furniture. It wasn’t so much the gloved fingers invading his mouth to examine his teeth, leaving the taste of latex on his tongue, that was demeaning as the utter lack of interaction beyond the prodding hands. When the same fingers slipped between his legs and continued their methodical inspection, he felt his face burn, suddenly overwhelmed by shame the way he had not been even when he was being subject to other forms of inhumane treatment. For the first time he truly felt like one of the condemned: shunned by society, less than a person.

The doctor examined his previously injured hand last; removing the cast was the most gentle thing he did, and for a moment Jesus dared hope for a flicker of warmth. “The bones have healed well enough,” he observed. Then the hope was rapidly extinguished when he ignored Jesus’ questions while penning notes into his report. He left as abruptly as he had arrived, without so much as a goodbye.

It was to be two weeks before Jesus would see him again (a period he managed to keep track of only by measuring days by the routine of each one). During that week he was treated better than he had ever been since his incarceration. His meals vastly improved; and as his appetite returned, he couldn’t help consuming every bite he was offered, often thinking it would be his last. 

The only downside of his restored mental clarity was a growing frustration at the lack of answers. No one would tell him what his fate was to be or why he was given special treatment even above other prisoners, accompanied to the shower stalls every three days so he could have a proper bath in private. After which his silent guardian would attend him, combing out the tangles from his hair so it dried into smooth wavy locks.

Then the day arrived when all the answers came, all at once. That was the day he would find himself wishing for oblivion once more.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> who else in the house has a humiliation kink and likes to snort that shit like drugs? let the party begin

On the day he was led from his cell, he was cleaned up and groomed more meticulously than usual before being handcuffed and guided through the sliding door, down the narrow hallway with the grey-green tiles he only vaguely remembered having walked before. He was strong enough now that his knees did not tremble as he put one foot in front of the other. But simply traversing this length of space after being so confined made every little thing feel like an assault on his senses: a beam of fluorescent light blinding his eyes, the echoing footsteps of guards or prisoners passing by jarringly loud, each little thing combining to make him dizzy with sensory overload. He felt raw and brittle and over-exposed.

The short journey lasted for an indeterminate length, seconds and minutes stretching and warping like pulled candy until they arrived at what he thought was an interrogation room. His breath hitched and his chest tightened with the memory of pain. But there were no instruments of torture in sight: no barrel of water, no tools of electrocution. The lighting was less harsh in here, the floor carpeted in mint-green. A large desk at one end of the room made it look more like an office than a holding cell. Its softness was strange against his bare feet that had known nothing but hard concrete for what felt like a year. Most of the men and women gathered – a mix of uniformed personnel, surely including a few he must have come up against in the past – did not even look prepared for anything more strenuous than a game of poker. That is, until he met their eyes. Their stance was relaxed, but their collective gaze was nothing if not predatory.

Then his eyes fell on the two chains hanging from the ceiling beams, each attached to a leather cuff, and his heart sank.

“Don’t – please. You don’t have to...I’ll cooperate, I promise…” His struggles were futile as he was dragged to the centre of the room. He felt the burn of fifteen pairs of eyes following him. 

The head warden smiled placatingly with cold eyes. “Well, now. You’re not exactly known for being cooperative, are you? If you were, you might even be a free man by now.” He paced the length of the room in a commanding, leisurely manner. “For my troubles of giving you chance after chance to work with the law, even extending freedom in exchange, when you were already a condemned man...well. I think I deserve some recompense, don’t you? As do my hardworking colleagues who put in tireless hours these past few months to quell the uprisings led in your name.” He shook his head as his stride came to a pause in front of his prisoner. “You’ve been quite the focus of attention here, Jesus of Nazareth. And now you finally get the spotlight you deserve.”

He nodded to the two guards who had brought Jesus in. “Strip him.”

Jesus knew there was nothing he could do to stop them. His brief resistance was already enough to tire him out as they locked his wrists in the suspended cuffs. He tried and failed to hold his head up when every inch of skin was laid bare to the surrounding audience. Any defiance he might have worn as a front dissolved in the face of the impassive, coolly appraising faces he saw everywhere he dared to look. His humiliation only intensified when his legs were forced apart, each ankle fastened to separate ends of a steel bar to leave him spread out and exposed. 

He locked his jaw in place to keep his lips from trembling and calmed his breaths as best he could. There was no need to give them a show. Perhaps with a lack of reaction, they would tire of the game and decide he was a waste of time. He dared hang on to some shred of hope until it was torn from him when the hard-faced woman observing the proceedings from behind the desk declared: 

“Bidders have fifteen minutes to conduct inspections, starting now. Priority is given to the ladies and gents in the front.”

Jesus realised belatedly that there was indeed a hierarchy to the guests present. The ones in the front wore a strip of white ribbon pinned to their lapels or breast pockets. Three of them now stepped forward, their eyes gleaming with intent. The first man to come into contact put a hand on his waist before sliding it down to squeeze the curve of his behind, making him gasp despite his attempts at a stolid front. Someone else’s fingers were sliding between his legs, moving methodically in a way that made his face and neck turn red-hot with shame. "Not well used at all, are you?" came the gentle whisper. He closed his eyes as if it could help shut out the mocking words. When the finger finally breached him, the first tears slipped past his eyelids.

“He’s so pretty when he cries,” said a lady’s appreciative voice. Several people murmured in assent.

Someone else’s fingers were in his mouth, far less clinical in their inspection than the good doctor’s had been. He wondered what his punishment would be for biting down on them. Then thoughts of retribution were ejected from his head when the digits slid all the way to the back, far enough to trigger his gag reflex. His whimper of protest was garbled by the fingers pinning down his tongue. A man whose hand was stroking his hair chuckled in amusement as he retched, stopping short of throwing up his food. He felt the sting of bile as his eyes watered.

“He’d be terrible at taking cock up more than one end, I can see.”

“All the more fun to train, then. Ready-made sluts are hardly any fun.”

“A gentle reminder not to cause any damage or leave marks,” said the woman behind the desk. “Any degradation in value will be paid in kind by the one responsible.”

The second batch of bidders were now allowed to come forth. Emboldened by their predecessors, their hands were more ravenous, groping and stroking shamelessly until he wished for nothing more than the floor to swallow him up. He wished to be unfeeling, to return to that state of numbness when the agony of numerous interrogations had caused his mind to shut down as some last-ditch attempt to save what remained of his sanity. But after the stretch of hazy detachment, his senses had decided to spring back to life with a vengeance. He was only all too aware of every sensation, every touch, every demeaning word meant to reduce him to an object of pleasure, a toy for sale.

The fifteen minutes stretched into an eternity. When it was over, he found himself shaken and trembling despite his best efforts, the taste of salt on his tongue from his own tears. All around him was a muted flurry of conversation. More than a few smiled as they drank in his abject humiliation. An open leer or two painted, without need for words, what they would love to do to him to properly and thoroughly break him. While most settled for glancing and gesturing at him from some distance, some stood close enough to continue their appraisal, discussing his merits and even his resale value post-acquisition. 

“It depends on his condition when you’re done with him, of course,” said a wiry forty-something major to his corporal. “I’d loan you to him, but I don’t think I’ll win this bidding war. Jensen there has his heart set on bringing home a dissident-turned-fucktoy for him and his wife. As an anniversary treat.”

The corporal lowered his voice. “Is it true he hosts orgies at his place every new year’s eve?”

“If he does, you didn’t hear it from me, son.” The man gave Jesus a once-over with a raised eyebrow. “To be frank, I don’t know if I might even bid. I prefer a bit more flesh on my bones.”

“You can feed him up all you like if you win, Major,” said the head warden in passing, having heard his remark. “But you’ll find a little starvation does wonders for keeping unruly rebels in line.”

To the woman at the desk, he called: “Are we ready?”

She nodded. “Ladies, gentlemen, the auction will now commence. Bidding starts at –”

Jesus never did find out how much (or little) he was worth as the woman was cut off by the doors swinging open. The tall, commanding man whose gaze swept the room caused everyone his eye fell upon to visibly shrink.

“I had been supplied with rumours of the particular activity taking place here,” he stated. “I’m disappointed to see that the rumours are not unfounded. But even more disappointed with the fine men and women who risk flushing their careers down the toilet just to sate their mindless lust.”

The head warden made the mistake of speaking up. “Sir, I would like to state that –”

“That you are vacating your post with immediate notice? Yes, I think that would be best.” Caiaphas fixed him with a stare that left him stuttering and looking two feet shorter than his original height. “Yes, sir,” he said at last, walking out of the room with as much dignity as he could muster.

“As for the rest of you, consider yourselves fortunate in the extreme.” The many eyes that had feasted upon Jesus with undisguised greed seconds ago were downcast in submission as they filed out of the room until only the two wardens who had accompanied Caiaphas remained. 

“Get him dressed and bring him to my office,” he told them before turning to leave. Wordlessly, they obeyed. Jesus found there was no resistance left in his limbs as he allowed them to free him from his restraints and to clothe him in the same plain tunic and pants he had been wearing earlier. His caretakers had ceased putting him into the standard prisoners’ overalls for some weeks now. Yet another indication of the odd limbo he occupied: a prisoner without a sentence, whose fate was apparently known to all but himself.

And now fate was twisting yet again. He was led into the spacious but spartan quarters that served as Caiaphas’ office and seated in a large leather chair that made him feel small in contrast, especially in his still malnourished state. The plush chairs were at odds with the hard lines of the concrete-grey tables and shelves, the colourlessness of the carpeting and framed monochrome photographs of men with stony faces.

To ease the vague yet persistent torment of his wait, of the silence that held no answers, he drifted into a state of mindlessness until he startled back to reality by the hands on his shoulders. The man’s expensive cologne went well with everything else about his person: the immaculate suit, the air of unquestionable authority, the manicured nails gripping him just firmly enough to emphasize his helplessness. “It seems we keep going in circles, Jesus of Nazareth,” said Caiaphas. “Except the last time you were here, in this same chair, you were unshackled; a free man.” The hands left him as Caiaphas ambled to his desk where a few slim stacks of documents were neatly arranged. “You have fought so hard for the freedom of your compatriots. But freedom, you must realise, has a price.”

“Ah, the return of the silent king,” said a mocking voice belonging to the man who had just entered. Jesus knew who it was before he turned his head. The slick-haired, blithely outspoken politician was Caiaphas’ sociopolitical equal in all but style, favouring gaudy shirts and loud ties that oddly enough had made him rather popular with TV audiences who thought him a refreshing personality amidst more straitlaced personages like the man whose chambers he currently occupied. Herod’s gait was relaxed where Caiaphas’ was imposing, but behind the joviality was unmistakable, relentless steel. He crouched casually before Jesus and let his eyes wander all over the captive: a demeaning sensation to which the latter was unfortunately no stranger to now. “Got yourself a proper little sub this time, haven’t you, Joseph?” he said. “Won’t say no to a little spank-and-squeeze from daddy?”

Caiaphas merely smiled as Jesus’ eyes widened. “It all depends on how accommodating he wishes to be. He needs to learn that a little...flexibility is all that’s needed to ease the way. To make thing easy – even pleasant – for everyone.”

Herod chuckled and cradled Jesus’ chin mockingly, running a thumb across his lower lip. “I look forward to his education.” Jesus glared defiantly back, but he guessed that the man had already seen his trembling hands, cuffed in front of him so they had nowhere to hide. Caiaphas fixed a cool gaze on him while ruffling through one of the documents on his desk, as if he surely did not already know their contents back to front. “Now. Down to business. You were most uncooperative in surrendering the details of your fellow lawbreakers, so we were forced to do some digging ourselves. And luckily enough, we found ourselves a little tattler.” 

He pointed a remote at the screen behind him to play a short clip of a young man with bound hands bent over, sobbing and cursing, having clearly being pounded to within an inch of his life. Yet his face and form was still recognisable – enough to make Jesus’ heart pound with dismay as his blood went cold. “Peter.” The young man in the video was screaming now; someone was twisting his wrist, threatening to break it. Jesus rose to his feet suddenly. “Don’t hurt him anymore! Let him go! Let him – ”

Herod’s foot slid out to trip him and send him falling to his knees. Caiaphas’ habitual smirk deepened as he turned off the screen. “You’ll be glad to know your friend remained unharmed, save for a few bruises. But I cannot guarantee that he, or the others, will stay that way.”

“Others…?” Jesus found his limbs weighted, paralysed, with hopelessness. “Who?”

Caiaphas hit the remote again. The screen now showed the faces and names he had hoped never to see displayed in such a manner, starting with Peter’s youthful visage, smiling and unbruised. Others followed in his wake, each one resembling a death sentence. _James Asluga. Mary Magdalene. Matthew Levi…_

“All but two are included on this list,” said Caiaphas. “One of them we already knew to be a dangerous man from the start; more dangerous even than you.” The screen switched to another video of a man even more battered than Peter had been in the midst of being dragged into a van, still struggling with the last of his strength as the doors were slammed shut. Jesus could barely control his trembling at the sight of Simon’s bared teeth and blazing eyes – their willfulness shining even through the swollen flesh around them – before they disappeared behind the black tinted glass of the van windows. He tried not to imagine Simon’s indomitable spirit being broken by circumstances that had long slipped beyond their control.

Except...this couldn’t be the end. There had to be some way out. Something he could do. And the two men in the room knew it.

He did not ask about the last one on the list. He did not dare contemplate the terrible things that might have happened to his beloved. And Caiaphas did not volunteer that information, much as he must have sensed the unspoken question. _All will be revealed in time,_ said his confident, unhurried stride.

“What do you want from me?” Jesus asked quietly. The words he knew they had been waiting to hear. In response, Caiaphas and Herod exchanged a smile that made his heart sink further than it already had.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This whole chapter is nothing but filth and suffering, and I'm sorry except not really

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan was first invented - or rather, named - by Saffiaan and brought to life by both of us. For the curious, he's the tall lanky blond in the 2012 arena version of 'This Jesus Must Die'

He was fastened to what seemed like a mocking perversion of a crucifix, arms spread out with leather straps fastening his wrists to the metal bar, another length of metal cold against his back. At least his legs were not forced apart this time, although he had no doubt his captors had plenty of other ways to degrade him. 

They were thrilled at the way he flushed when a gag with a leather phallus attached was pressed against his lips. Herod forced his mouth open and shoved the length in, pulling and buckling tightly in place. “Consider it a warm-up for our later activities,” Herod said with a twinkle in his eye.

They had been joined some ten minutes ago by Caiaphas’ usual right-hand man Annas, as well as Jonathan: a tall, lanky youth whom Jesus had not met but who had the air of a very ambitious junior willing to lick any number of boots on his way to the top. He appeared downright delighted to be here. Annas was now in the midst of slicking up a plug that was large enough to make Jesus tense in trepidation. He tried to relax as the device was slowly pushed past the muscles of his entrance, knowing Annas had left him unprepared so that the intrusion would hurt, albeit without causing any injury. “Don’t fuss so much,” said Annas cheerfully when he squirmed and panted. “We all know you’re hardly an untried virgin. I’ve heard some delightful rumours that your closest circle of friends each get to take you in turn – that it’s one of the ways you retain their loyalty. Or is such hearsay unfounded?”

Jesus could only only glare at him over the gag, unable at the moment to defend himself against the allegations; although they had likely been made up just to torment him more. When the last inch of the plug was shoved in abruptly, he couldn’t help the muffled whimper that only served to deepen Jonathan’s egregious smile.

Being so penetrated without any preparation whatsoever was deeply uncomfortable, and no amount of shifting made it any easier. But even harder to bear was the gazes all around him that stripped him to the very core. The suffocating sensation of being stared at like an object was even more intense than what he had suffered during the prelude to the aborted auction. Herod’s eyes barely left him even as he poured himself a drink from the decanter on Caiaphas’ side table. 

“Jonathan. I heard you brought along one of your special toys. Entertain us, will you?” He poured out glasses for the others as well, in the manner of a cordial host of a dinner party. That was when Jesus realised they had planned this all along. The men in this office might well have known about the auction in advance, allowing the inspection phase to run its course so they could enjoy his degradation. Perhaps the whole event had been covertly filmed, and any moment now would play out on the screen behind Caiaphas’ desk.

Jonathan stepped forward while fiddling leisurely with the contraption in his hand. Jesus didn’t know what it was until the young man reached between his thighs and began stroking him with the casual ease of experience. His breaths turned to shallow panting as he was brought to arousal against his will. Then he heard a soft click as the device encircled his hardened cock. He stiffened and moaned when arousal turned to pain as the metal pressed against his swollen sex. 

“Nice work,” said Caiaphas. Jonathan practically bowed at the praise, looking immensely pleased with himself. The former studied his perfectly trimmed nails as he said to Jesus: “Do you think perhaps we should bring some of your friends in? The ones whose liberation is of such importance to you? Surely they should be made to appreciate your sacrifice.”

Jesus’ face burned as he tried not to shiver at the very prospect. Caiaphas continued: “Perhaps they should be allowed the privilege of having you. The level of pleasure they derive from it might well prove or disprove the rumours Annas mentioned earlier.” Herod chuckled, his Cheshire Cat grin looking like something Simon would have loved to punch off his face. He was reminded of his friend’s unmentioned whereabouts; Caiaphas had implied that he was not among Jesus’ currently imprisoned friends. He wondered where Simon was, and hoped desperately that these despicable people had not attempted to break him. To do to him what was being done to Jesus now.

“In the meantime,” declared the master of ceremonies, “I’ll let my colleagues have their fun. Goodness knows you’ve made them work hard for it.”

Jonathan approached him again, this time holding what looked like a broad belt of fabric tightened with a buckle, with an attached compartment holding a cartridge of some kind. The belt was strapped around his right upper arm; Jonathan adjusted the slim cartridge, making sure it was snug against his forearm. Jesus’ morbid curiosity as to its function became clear in the next second when Herod held up a small remote control and hit the button. Several thousand volts of electricity shot through him as the room disappeared in a haze of white-hot agony.

When he came to, he was shaking uncontrollably. His lower body felt numb, although he was vaguely aware of his legs going limp, his body held up only by his restraints. Herod studied him with fascination, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as if to say: _That was fun, wasn’t it?_ And then he hit the remote button again.

This time the agonising pain lasted longer than the last hit, which had been experimental in comparison. If not for the gag filling his mouth, his screams would have echoed right down the corridors. Except he was barely aware that he was screaming until the electrocution ceased and he realised his throat was sore. The memories of being tied in a chair and stabbed with high-voltage instruments by interrogators whose faces were a blur overwhelmed him with a wave of panic. “No more,” he wanted to plead. His stifled whimpers seemed to still Herod’s fingers for a bit as they fiddled with the remote. “Maybe we’ll lay off for a bit, eh?” he said as if they had just ended a particularly strenuous board game. “Besides, I think Annas prefers to fuck someone who isn’t unconscious.”

Of course. He had to know it was coming sooner or later. Annas undid the leather straps binding him to the metal post, stepping aside to let him tumble bonelessly to the carpet, his muscles still partially numbed from the shock. His wrists were refastened behind his back and his legs kicked apart as he was bent over to fully expose him for what was to come. The removal of the plug made him realise how sore it had left him. A shiver ran through him: an aftermath of electrocution, as well as the knowledge that he was not ready to be taken – and that there was nothing he could do to stop it.

At the very least, the plug had eased the way by stretching him out. For Annas was about as merciful in fucking him as he’d expected, lubricating his cock but not the entrance it was about to breach. Luckily the man’s girth was not tremendous, and the pain of his rough rutting was bearable. Having no strength left to struggle was a grim blessing; any resistance would have made the ordeal worse. Still, he guessed that Annas derived little pleasure from the rape of someone who seemed content to just lie there limply and take it. He would have liked a bit of fight. He compensated by rising to aim a kick into his victim’s belly. Three times the hard point of his shoe landed, once right in the chest to knock the wind from Jesus’ lungs until he groaned and struggled to breathe around the gag. He realised after a while that Annas had not spilt inside him – or at all. It was apparent that the man could not properly climax without the satisfaction of properly subjugating his prey.

“You took the fun right out of him,” Annas remarked to Herod, confirming Jesus’ suspicions. It was the tiniest of victories against everything that had come before, and everything that was about to come.

Herod only shrugged. “Well, then, you’re not doing it right.” He knelt beside Jesus, who was still panting while lying on his side, and reached for his cock to stroke it to hardness. As soon as it swelled sufficiently, the metal cage encircling it grew painfully tight. Jesus gasped and tried to inch away from Herod’s touch, only to receive a kick in the back from Annas, hard enough for him to see stars. The man really was a hateful bully, thought Jesus, delighting most in breaking someone down and then hitting them while they were there.

“Give me that,” he heard Herod say. Moments later, the plug was shoved back into him, freshly lubricated as a small mercy. “You look very pretty stuffed from both ends,” Herod commented with his signature grin. “But I think you’re about ready for a real cock, don’t you?”

The gag was removed and Jonathan summoned. Caiaphas paced leisurely in the background, watching the eager young man undo his trousers and pull out what Jesus felt was a disproportionately large member for his slender frame. “Give us a show, Jesus,” said Caiaphas. “Give it your all. Be a proper cock-slut, and we just might release your friends a little earlier than planned.”

Jonathan’s thick cock was pressing against his face, and it was all he could do not to flinch at the loathsome feel of it, at the musky, overpowering scent he was expected to swallow, to make a show of being eager for. The safety of his friends was being dangled like bait before him. How could he not rise to it?

“I think he needs instructions,” came Annas’ grating voice, cool and in power once more. 

Herod’s fingers crept up his jaw, prying it open. “Stick out your tongue, love,” he said patiently, as if teaching someone to ride a bike. “Be a good boy. That’s it.” The tip of the cock slid against the length of Jesus’ tongue, and the taste of its pre-come made him retch. But there was no backing away; Herod held him in place, forcing his mouth to stay open as Jonathan made full use of it. He was ordered to lick the whole length of that throbbing sex, and he did, trying not to think of anything, to let his mind go blank. To be their perfect slave and fulfill his end of the bargain. 

“If only your followers could see you now,” Jonathan whispered. Those few words hit him like a sharp blow, threatening to destroy his very sense of self. The endless humiliation of the past two hours came crashing down on him, their sudden weight too much to bear. Silent sobs shook his entire frame; silent only because he threw all his strength into holding them back, even if he could not hold back the tears streaming down his face. This delighted Jonathan to no end, who wiped them off his cheeks and licked them off his fingers as if savouring the taste of his misery.

Then the man’s entire girth was being shoved in, hitting the back of his throat. This time he really did throw up, pent-up anxiety combining with his triggered gag reflex. As soon as Jonathan withdrew, he bent over and spewed all over the carpet in front of him, most of it liquid and bile. He had barely recovered from the bout of dizziness that followed when Annas slapped him hard across the face. “It seems like we may have to retract our offer of letting your compatriots go,” he hissed, “if you keep failing to perform.”

“No, I-I’ll do it. Let them go. Please.”

A half-full glass of water was pressed to his lips. “Rinse out your mouth.” When he was done gulping down its contents, Jonathan’s cock slid in once more, and he tried his best to please, despite being short of breath within seconds. With his hands bound behind his back, it was hard to find the leverage he needed. He was almost thankful when a hand gripped his hair and dictated his movements. The suffocating length slid in and out at a brutal pace until a rush of filled his mouth and he tried to swallow it all.

Jonathan’s fingers let go of his head, and he slumped to the carpet in a half-swoon, grateful for being able to draw air into his lungs properly.

“It’s done,” he uttered at last. _It’s over. Finally over._ “Let them go.”

A brief silence met his words. Then he heard Caiaphas relaying instructions over the intercom. He heard the names and mentally ticked them off to make sure no one was missing. _James. Matthew. Mary. John. Peter._ When he managed to struggle back into an upright position, Caiaphas was smiling beatifically down at him as he gestured to the screen, which was now showing live footage from selected cameras. “Never let anyone say I’m not a man of my word.” The camera displays showed his friends being taken from their cells, their faces displaying a mix of relief and worry. Mary and James were persistent in questioning the guards, their lips moving inaudibly, but their questions went unanswered. Then the screen went black.

“Bring him here,” Herod ordered. His tone was casual, but also laden with anticipation. Jesus’ stomach tightened with new anxiousness as Annas grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to where Herod sat on one of the plush leather armchairs. “Our deal is done,” he insisted as he was positioned on the man’s lap, his legs spread out over Herod’s thighs. “Release me.”

“Said whom?” Caiaphas’ eyes gleamed. “In bargaining for your comrades’ release, I’m afraid you neglected your own. Such is your self-sacrificial nature, I suppose. I can see why you’re so beloved.”

Jesus felt sickened by the clever nature of their games. Of course he had not bargained for his own liberation; he had not thought it part of the picture at all. How could he, when he had not been informed of his options – when those who held the cards had kept them hidden, revealing only the ones that would compel him to lose?

Herod’s hand crept down to stroke his thighs, his sex, fingers manipulating him until his body betrayed him by making him hard, causing his aroused flesh to strain once more against the metal encircling it. The man’s movements were merciless, and he had nowhere to go, panting and whimpering and writhing in a perverse intertwining of arousal and pain until fresh tears escaped his eyes in steady rivulets. The plug was removed, and he found Herod’s hard cock against his entrance, although thankfully the man was content not to penetrate him. Instead the rigid curve rubbed against him, pressing into the cleft of his behind until Herod climaxed with a groan of satisfaction, some of his seed spilling against the inside of Jesus’ thighs. Then he was being pushed to the floor as Herod rose and wiped himself off with a silk handkerchief.

“Made a bit of a mess, haven’t we?” he said. “Clean it up, there’s a good boy.”

When Jesus only stared uncomprehendingly, he found Jonathan’s fingers in his hair again, pulling painfully to shove his face into the traces of come spilt on the leather seat. “I dare say your tongue could some practice,” said Annas mockingly. “Clean up your mess.”

A rush of bitterness rose inside him: the kind of hopeless anger only someone in his position could know. He straightened and withdrew from the chair. “It’s not _my_ mess.”

His defiance earned him another slap: a backhand this time, and significantly more painful for the cut from Annas’ ring. He felt blood trickle down his cheek, but remained planted where he was. Herod made a ‘tsk’ sound, like a teacher reprimanding a naughty student. “I see we still have some training to do,” he remarked, and slid the remote device from his pocket.

Jesus’s entire body tensed in abject fear. “No –” The band still strapped around his arm tingled and white-hot fire coursed through his nerves, making him writhe and arch on the floor until every sinew was strained to breaking point. Herod paused just long enough for someone to shove the gag with its large leather phallus back into his mouth and fasten it in place – “Don’t want him biting his tongue off” – before he was hit with another round of agonising jolts. When it finally stopped, he was left in a state of half-consciousness, the room fading in and out of darkness. From far away, he thought he heard the voice of his lover. He couldn’t make out words, only hoarse, enraged shouts full of torment. _Don’t hurt him,_ he wanted to plead. _I’ll do anything if you promise not to hurt him._ Then the room and the rest of its hateful occupants faded away as everything went black.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A surprise visit with guns ablazing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The two OCs in this chapter were invented by Saffiaan & me for largely random reasons (and are part of a group of five people whose details I won't bother you with). Don't mind them; they only appear when it makes things a little bit more fun

He stirred to the sensation of his head resting in Judas’ lap, a comforting hand rubbing his back. _So it_ was _a nightmare after all._ He snuggled deeper into the embrace of the man he could spend a lifetime waking up next to and never tire of. Gladness filled his heart, so sweet it was painful. They were together, and they were safe; that was all that mattered.

And then the dream ended, and he was back in the nightmare.

“Such a touching love story,” came Herod’s mocking, saccharine voice. “Should we give them a moment? I hate to break this up; it’s really rather sweet.”

The horror of the day’s trials came crashing back down like an ice-cold wave. The only consolation was Judas’ arms tightening around him as he tried to sit up. He looked up to see his beloved’s face marked with a swollen eye and bloody nose, still trying to smile for him. “You’re here. You’re real.” _I thought I’d never see you again._ As he buried his face in Judas’ chest, gladly breathing in the familiar scent, he began trembling with exhaustion. “I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered. “Even though you should be free. I’d hoped you would get away.”

“Away from you, while you’re in pain? I’d rather die.”

“Why are you here…?” he whispered. “Where have you been?”

“Your boyfriend was most persistent,” said Caiaphas. “The one person on the list who managed to evade escape, only to walk right back into our hands, apparently deciding a life as a free man was nothing without you by his side. Very romantic and all.” 

“And because we were so touched by this display, we decided you should both get a shot at freedom,” Herod added. 

“What do you want from us?” Jesus asked.

Herod’s Cheshire Cat grin returned. “Nothing you two haven’t done before.”

His already cold hands went icy as he clutched at Judas’ t-shirt without realising it. He knew very well what his captors wanted, and so did Judas. His heart sank further when his boyfriend seemed inclined to acquiesce. (Then again, what choice did they really have?)

“We do this, and you let us go,” said Judas, his voice assuringly steady. “You leave us and our associates in peace until the end of our days.”

“Of course.” Caiaphas swirled his whisky and took a leisurely sip.

“One fuck. No more. No funny business.” At his cold, clipped words, Jesus shuddered – hearing their priceless shared intimacy reduced to such a transaction filled him with dread, even as he acknowledged the reality of their situation. Sensing his distress, Judas’ hand rubbed soothing circles on his back in an act of tenderness he wished the ravenous eyes around them were not present to witness.

“One more thing,” said Judas. “Take this damned thing off him, or you’re getting nothing.”

Jonathan approached with a casual smirk and crouched to unfasten the metal caging his sex. He drew a small breath of relief at its absence. “Now that we’ve agreed to your terms,” said Caiaphas, “I suggest you reward our amenability with a good show.”

Jesus squeezed his eyes shut as Judas lowered him onto the floor and spread him out, the familiar, beloved hands running all over him. Doing what they had done countless times. The tears he tried to hold back betrayed him and slipped out uncontrollably at this final violation: the act that would taint the memory of each blissful coupling, the urgent joy they took from each other’s hands and mouth and the warmth of skin against skin. All of it would be lost within the next few minutes. Such was the price of freedom.

Judas leant down to whisper something into his ear. But the words were drowned out by the loud bang of the door being kicked open.

A gunshot rang through the air, followed by Annas screaming. Jesus looked up to see that the man had been shot in the crotch. And then everything happened all at once. He felt Judas’ body curl around him to cover his nakedness as a cavalry stormed in armed to the teeth – and wearing, rather confusingly, the uniform of the enemy. The clear threat of their loaded weapons forced Caiaphas and company into surrender. Then the leader of the small army lifted his helmet, and Jesus gaped at the triumphant face with its tapestry of half-healed bruises.

“Simon!”

“The one and only.”

Judas was evidently as stunned to see him. “How did you – what –”

“Explain later.” Simon shrugged off his oversized camo jacket, throwing it at Jesus. “Here; you look a bit underdressed.” His tone was light, but the steel in his narrowed eyes suggested he knew very well the reason for his friend’s nakedness. The reason why he had shot Annas in that particular place.

As Jesus covered himself with the jacket as best he could, the dangerous-looking man who had been standing beside Simon gave an order to one of the rescue crew. “Shut the doors,” he said. “Let no one in. We keep this nice and neat.”

“Good thinking, El,” said Simon. He turned to another, smaller figure beside him. “You took care of the cameras?” The helmeted head nodded in response.

Caiaphas stepped forward with a calm that was at odds with his noticeably strained face. “Come now; surely we can come to an agreement of sorts. I’m sure we’d all prefer to avoid needless violence.” His eyes flicked to where his colleague lay gasping on the floor, bloodied hands still clasped around his nether region.

“You’re absolutely right, friend,” said the man called El. “We much prefer _necessary_ violence.” His gun took out Caiaphas’ kneecap; the latter bit back a cry and dropped to the floor. Herod immediately raised his hands in a clear signal of peaceful surrender, his put-on smile suggesting this was all one big joke and that anytime now the hidden camera crew would emerge. Jonathan's hands were similarly raised, although he looked much less amused.

El’s gaze fell on Jesus, and he reached down to unstrap the cursed band that had been the source of so much pain. “These are outlawed in all but two countries in the world,” he said with narrowed eyes. “Who put it on you?”

Jesus did not need to be asked twice. He pointed straight at Herod. The latter tried to charm his way out as El approached him, two crew members grabbing his arms to hold him in place. Simon’s stare was full of fury. “How many times did you use this on my friend?” he asked as El strapped the stun belt to his leg. “Two times? Three?”

Herod made a noncommittal gesture. “I barely tested it once –” 

“Four times.” Jesus’ voice was soft but damning. “The remote is in his pocket.”

El’s smile was deadly as he fished in Herod’s coat pockets and found what he was looking for. “Four times, eh?”

The room was treated to the sight of Herod writhing around on the carpet like a fish out of water jerking and flopping, struggling painfully for breath, trying to choke out pleas for mercy in between prolonged shocks. By the third time, he had wet himself, a stain spreading across his pant leg. “You disgust me,” said El, pointing the barrel of his shotgun at Herod’s head.

“Please…” he wheezed. El pulled the trigger, and he fell still.

The remaining three men went from afraid to downright desperate, Caiaphas retaining the most composure despite being pale with the attempt to move while dragging his injured leg. Annas was curled half-conscious on his side, stirred to full alertness by a woman kicking him enthusiastically in the ribs before stamping on his fingers with her combat boots. He murmured something, reduced to begging for his life, which she snorted at and proceeded to bash his face in with the barrel of her gun before shooting him in the belly. “Pathetic worm,” she spat. “Die slowly, like you deserve.”

While everyone’s attention was diverted to Annas’ agonised squeals, Judas had been watching Caiaphas intermittently, and now spotted him crawling towards the intercom to call for reinforcements. “Oh no you don’t,” he growled and pulled the large serrated knife from where it was sheathed on Simon’s belt. He grabbed Caiaphas and threw him to the ground before sinking the knife between his shoulder blades. He pulled out the blade viciously, taking a twisted delight in the ripping of flesh from the blade’s serrated edge, and buried the tip in Caiaphas’ left eye. The man howled loudly, then jerked like a puppet when the petite woman who had attacked Annas shot his other knee.

“Stop! Everyone put down your weapons!” Jonathan’s voice ringing through the air caught everyone by surprise. He had grabbed someone’s gun during a lapse in attention and was pushing the barrel into Jesus’ head, one arm locked around the latter’s neck. 

“Jesus...no…” Judas’ fearful utterance was mirrored by Simon’s crushed, wide-eyed look.

“Alright, here’s the deal. I’m walking out of here, down the hallway, and I let him go when I’m out of the building.” Jonathan’s eyes flicked about wildly to ensure everyone had heard him. “Anyone tries anything funny, I put a bullet through his head. Understand??”

“Go ahead then,” said El, unexpectedly. “Pull the trigger.”

The combined swearing of Judas and Simon as they balled their fists, ready to lunge at El, overlapped with Jonathan’s escalated threats. “I’ll do it, I swear! I’ll blow his brains into the carpet!” Jesus bit back a whimper as the barrel was jammed into his temple, hard enough to draw blood.

 _Trust me,_ El mouthed to Simon and Judas. To Jonathan, he said with deadly calm: “Do it. Shoot him.”

Crazed with his clawing efforts at survival, bewildered at his failure, the young man pulled the trigger. In place of the bang everyone flinched in anticipation at, there was only a click. He tried again. And again, the hollow click repeating itself.

The smug grin El had been holding back finally appeared as he shot Jonathan’s arm, prompting him to cry out and release his ransom. Judas dove in to pull Jesus into his arms. Jesus clung to him tightly until his shaking calmed down.

“What the fuck, dude? Simon exclaimed. In response, El lifted the gun Jonathan had dropped. “Modified safety catch. I was selling these limited edition babies at the Thai Hatyai border till they shut me down three years ago.” He ran his hands across the light yet compact body. “Real beauty. This is one of maybe ten left.” Then he switched it for a simple handgun. “And not worth using on scum like this.” He whacked Jonathan several times with the gun until his face was a bloody mess before shoving the barrel into his mouth. 

“Go ahead.” He kicked the man in the crotch, eliciting a long, garbled groan. “Beg for your life.”

Jonathan stammered in mindless panic, trying to form words around the thick steel in his mouth. “Sorry, man. Can’t hear you.”

There was a bang as Jonathan’s brains splattered the wall behind him. Jesus flinched, knowing the image would be burned into his mind for years to come. Following the two seconds of quiet was a gurgle from Annas. The man was nearing his final moments.

“While we’re waiting for him to die,” said Simon, “I guess I’ll take the time to honour the hero who first made me a free man...and who made this entire mission possible.” He gestured to El. “Meet Eleazar Khan, international arms dealer and someone who paid me for sex four times, during which we became good friends.” Eleazar gave an awkward wave, as if the situation was nothing more than an icebreaker session in some company bonding activity. “I’d called on him shortly before getting arrested, not knowing if he’d ever turn up. Turns out he was the one driving the van that was supposed to haul me to maximum security. And he’d brought friends.” He nodded to the other three people in the team.

Jesus recalled the footage on Caiaphas’ screen that had shown Simon being dragged into the back of a vehicle, and a small smile tugged at his lips. Trust Simon to have made the right kind of questionable friends. Even if the sex part was unnecessary information.

“Hey, don’t I get credit?” asked the small but terrifying woman.

“Oh yeah, Lydia helped too. Even if she did need the most persuading.”

“Don’t suppose you have spare uniforms,” Judas said. “You have a plan to get us out?”

Lydia dug two spare sets from a duffel bag and tossed them to Judas. “Hope these fit.”

Simon nodded at Caiaphas. “Anyone got any idea how we should kill this last one?” His voice softened a little as he looked to Jesus. “You get to call it. If you want.”

Jesus said nothing, wanting only for it all to be over. Yet he found his eyes flicking very briefly to the metal structure he had been bound to earlier. Simon did not miss the movement of his gaze. He smiled grimly at Lydia and Eleazar. “What d’you say?”

Lydia returned his smile with a broad grin. “Don’t have to ask me twice.” She and Eleazar made short work of tying Caiaphas to the cross-like structure before using their knives to slice away his clothes. Lydia’s sharp eyes spotted the shiny black plug and the phallic gag lying discarded on the floor. She picked them up, eyes gleaming. “They use this on you?” she asked Jesus.

He shook his head, but the flush creeping up his face, the lowering of his eyes as his shoulders shook, told a different story. Eleazar knelt beside him and clasped his shoulder. “Hey, man. No shame in it. You can’t help what these shits did to you.” Behind him, Lydia shoved the gag into her captive’s mouth and followed it up by gleefully pushing the plug right up his ass as he emitted a muffled groan.

Eleazar took over, commandeering the small but efficient crew. “Alright, splash the place and then get ready to clear out. Leave nothing behind that can’t be burnt to ash.” At his last words, Caiaphas made a panicked sound. Simon stared unblinkingly at him and pulled out a Zippo from his pocket as his comrades methodically emptied kerosene cans all over the surroundings with the practiced movements of experience.

Jesus looked at the three men who had raped him lying dead all around the room – Annas having breathed his last seconds ago – and shuddered. His legs felt next to useless as he clung to Judas’ shoulders. “Can you walk?” asked the latter. “I don’t know.” He managed to stand for two seconds before swaying and stumbling, dizzy with exhaustion. He felt Judas arms lifting him off the ground, and was filled with a rush of gratitude and love.

Just before he was carried out of the room, his eyes met Caiaphas’ remaining one. He felt the intensity of Judas’ glare over his head also fixed on the man, who quivered from head to toe as he fought in vain against the approach of a painful demise.

Simon walked up to the tall, securely bound figure, the grim smile still fixed on his face. The clink of his Zippo produced a long fiery tongue that sent flames creeping up Caiaphas’ feet and calves as soon as it licked the carpet. As Judas bore him away to safety, Jesus heard the crackle of fire and wondered if he was imagining the stifled screams mingling with the growing blaze. Then Simon slammed the door shut and locked it, leaving Caiaphas to meet his just fate.

  
  


He couldn’t remember passing out, stirring abruptly back to consciousness when the van pulled to a halt and the door next to him slid open. The sunlight and fresh air hitting his face was overwhelming. He could barely raise hie eyes to the sky without being blinded. It was a blissful feeling. With Judas’ help, he managed to make his feet stumble toward the parked car waiting for them by road side. A familiar dark maroon MPV from which emerged two of the people he had feared he would never see again.

As Mary and James enveloped him in a hug, he burst into tears. Vaguely he registered that they were both crying as well. They stood like that for a long time, barely hearing Simon saying his goodbyes and the van driving off with Eleazar, Lydia and the rest. 

“Let’s go get pizzas,” said Simon as he threw his arms around the trio and squeezed them tight. “How does that sound?”

“Pizza sounds good,” Jesus replied with a shaky smile. Pizza sounded amazing, actually. He was suddenly aching for food; his insides had nearly forgotten what it was like to be properly, wonderfully hungry.

“There’s cold beer in the back seat,” said James. “Simon told us to bring some.”

“Thank fuck for that.” Judas grabbed a can from the chiller as soon as they slid into Mary’s car and cracked it open to take a swig. He handed it to Jesus, who shook his head at first, but then changed his mind. The bitter, full-flavoured wheat beer felt wonderful rushing down his throat. As did a multitude of things he had once taken for granted. He had had this brand countless times and never noted its subtle fruity tones before. With a faint lingering trace of citrus on his tongue, he leaned into Judas and watched the sun go down on the moving world outside the car window, painting the city in its glorious golden light. So this was what it felt like to be alive.


End file.
